


Innocent When You Dream

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:03:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy would not have chosen to meet the cute blonde girl he's seen around his dorm when he's half-naked and bleeding, but on the bright side, at least he's meeting her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innocent When You Dream

"Okay, tell me exactly how this happened."

Bellamy scowls at the girl, on reflex, but he knows he deserves her mockery. She found him on the laundry room floor, half out of his pants, and bleeding. She could be mocking him a lot more than she is, and he'd still deserve it.

"I'm drunk," he says, petulant.

"Oh yeah, I definitely figured that out. But were you, like, trying to fuck the washing machine? Why did your pants need to come off? That's where you lose me."

He scowls harder. He was hoping the mild head wound would sober him up more, but he's still drunk and irritable, just also bleeding. "I needed to do laundry."

"And you like to do laundry naked? I'm not judging. This is a safe place."

"You're definitely judging."

"Okay, yeah, I'm definitely judging. But also kind of genuinely worried. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot, so it's hard to tell how bad they are. You should let me look at it."

"But I haven't started my laundry yet," he says. It might be more of a whine, honestly. It's _important_. "I really need to do this laundry, uh--" He has seen this girl around, knows she lives somewhere near him, if not in his building, but he doesn't know her name or anything. He's mostly noted her as _cute blonde_ , which is not a good thing to call people. "Hot, judgey girl," he settles on, like that's _better_.

"It's Clarke. But I'm going to get _hot, judgey girl_ printed on business cards." She looks at the washer. "So, can I just start this and you'll let me patch you up?"

"No!" he protests, struggling to his feet. His jeans fall all the way down, and he kicks them off. "I remembered I needed to wash these," he explains, and Clarke obligingly leans down to grab them.

"So you fell over and injured yourself trying to remove your jeans so you could wash them," she says. "Just so I'm totally clear on this."

"They're my favorites."

"Okay then." She checks the pockets, gets his keys and wallet and phone and shit, and then tosses the pants into the machine. "You already paid, so--"

There's blood on his shirt now, of course, so he tugs that off and throws it in too.

Clarke blinks at him. "You know, most people just change before they start laundry. Please tell me those aren't your favorite boxers."

He looks down at himself; he's now wearing just a pair of gray boxers and his shoes and socks, which he hadn't quite realized would happen when he removed most of his clothing.

"All my boxers are pretty much the same," he says. "I just stripped in front of you, didn't I."

She looks amused, at least. She is very hot. "Well, you were like half stripped before I got here, so I knew what I was getting into. Where do you live?"

"Second floor. 205."

"Okay, come on. We're--"

"But my laundry isn't done?"

"I started it. It'll be half an hour before it's done, and I don't want you bleeding out on my watch. We'll come back for it."

It's pretty reasonable; he probably doesn't want to just lie here against the washing machine for the next thirty minutes. Or, hour and fifteen minutes, including drying time.

"Okay," he says, and lets her help him up. Standing, she's a few inches shorter than he is, and her hair is very soft against his cheek. "Why were you down here?"

"I was going to the vending machine and heard a crash and loud swearing. Seemed worth checking out."

"Thanks. I think I failed to say that earlier."

"No problem. I'm getting my Samaritan points. Why are you so drunk? Or is this normal for you?"

"Roommate's birthday."

"Fair enough. And where is he?"

"At his boyfriend's place."

"Also fair enough." She gets him up the stairs and into the second floor hallway without too much trouble. He's trying to help as much as he can, but his head hurts and his legs feel like lead, so she's definitely doing most of the work.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't say that either."

"It's fine. I haven't had a really college experience in a while. Door unlocked?"

He blinks, realizing belatedly that they are indeed at his door. "Uh, yeah."

"Okay, good. Which bed is yours? Please tell me you're not in the top bunk or something."

He has to smile. "No, it's--that one. Left." He looks at his hands. "Left, right? This one."

Clarke snorts. "Yeah, that's your left hand." They navigate over to his bed and she gets him sitting, propped up against the wall. "Are you Bellamy or Nathan?"

"Bellamy."

"Okay, nice to meet you, Bellamy." She glances around and spots the Kleenex on his desk, grabs a few tissues and puts them firmly in his hand. She has nice hands, he thinks. Soft but strong. She feels like a steady person. "I'm gonna go get some supplies. Press these against your head, okay? And don't go to sleep. I don't think you're concussed, but I don't want to risk it."

"Seriously, thanks," he says, and her smile is so _pretty_. 

"Sure. Stay awake."

He gets some music playing, his energetic playlist for when he needs to power through writing a paper, and puts a lot of pressure on his head. It hurts, but he thinks it's what you're supposed to do with head wounds. And pain keeps you awake. That's probably science.

Clarke gets back after two and a half songs with a surprising amount of stuff. She's serious about this whole care-taking thing. He offers her a weak smile, and she gives him a mega-watt grin. "You're still conscious!"

"I didn't want to miss you," he says. "Is that a first-aid kit?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Just--did you go and buy it? Really fast?"

"No, it's mine," she says, leaning in and taking the tissues off his forehead. She's wearing a tank top and he struggles to not look down it. She's being really nice to him and he should not be objectifying her. Not that it's more okay to objectify girls who are mean to him. He should never objectify anyone. He's doing his best. "I figured I probably wouldn't need it, but I'd be really happy to have it if I did."

"And do you ever?"

"Thankfully not often. This is the first time this year. Also, this is gonna sting."

It does, she's not wrong, but he manages to stay quiet and mostly dignified. "You're not bad at this," he says, and then realizes he sounds like a dick, and adds, "I mean, you're good at it. Even though you don't use the first-aid kit a lot."

Clarke laughs. "Thanks. You're awesome at compliments."

"I'm drunk and bleeding. I'm doing my best, okay?"

"I'm only judging you a little, I promise. I've been there."

"Yeah?"

"Nope, not even a little. This is excessive." She grabs one of those butterfly band-aid things that hold wounds together and puts it on his forehead. "Okay, I think that's set. Do you want clothes? I sort of figured you'd get dressed while I was gone."

He glances down at himself; he'd actually forgotten he was mostly naked. It explains why he's cold. He pokes one of his nipples, watching it depress and then stiffen again, and Clarke lets out a strange, choked laugh. "I had to keep the tissues on my face," he says. "I was busy."

"Okay, well--which dresser is yours?" she asks, and he gestures vaguely. She gets off the bed and opens drawers until she finds a t-shirt for him. 

"I wish I was making a better first impression," he admits, tugging the shirt over his head.

"You're cute and mostly naked," Clarke says, easy. "And very earnest. You're fine. How are you feeling?"

"Shitty," he admits. "You could tell me I'm cute some more."

"Earnest _and_ vain," she teases. "The total package." She hands him a bottle of water. "Drink that. I've got an alarm set for your laundry. Do you have Netflix or something? I want you to stay awake for at least a little longer, just in case."

"How many concussions have you dealt with?"

"I'm pre-med. You're my first practical application, though. If you have any feedback, let me know."

"You're awesome," he says, honestly. "I can email your professors and tell them. Do you want me to?"

She laughs. "Dear Professor, I am a drunk guy your daughter found half-dead in the laundry room and nursed back to health, have you considered giving her an A? Her hair is very pretty."

"Shit, did I really say I think your hair is pretty? I was trying to not say creepy shit like that."

"No, I was just guessing."

The rest of the sentence catches up with him. "Your professor is your mom?"

"Yup. And yes, it is awkward, and no, I don't want to talk about it."

"Cool. I do have Netflix."

"Great. Pick something that'll keep you engaged," she says, grabbing his pillow and slotting it between her head and the wall as she settles in next to him.

"You're staying?" he asks, trying not to sound too pathetically excited.

"I've been here this long, I might as well make sure you don't die. I'm invested now." She finds his laptop and navigates to Netflix, smiles when she sees his queue. "Spartacus?"

"What?"

"My ex-boyfriend wouldn't watch that with me because he heard it had gay sex." She pauses. "My ex-girlfriend wouldn't either, actually. For the same reason. I'm the only one in most of my relationships who likes watching guys make out."

"Clearly they don't know much about ancient Rome," he says. "If Roman stuff doesn't have gay sex, it's doing it wrong."

"Can you drunkenly fill me in on the plot I missed?"

"Oh yeah, definitely. Or you can just start at the beginning, I don't care."

"You're supposed to be engaged, not bored watching something you've already seen."

"I'll watch you watching it. You're way more interesting anyway."

She flushes a little at that, and, yeah, she's so much better to look at than anything else in his room. She's got a mark over her lip, a mole or a freckle or something, and he really wants to lick it. But she's the pretty girl who's taking pity on him, so he's trying to minimize his inappropriateness.

He's not sure at what point he falls asleep. She wakes him up a couple times, poking his side gently and saying, "Bellamy, Bellamy," and he manages to not say anything stupid about how much he likes waking up and seeing her, which is a triumph all by itself. She goes to switch his laundry by herself, which he tries to object to, but he's mostly asleep again by then, and she just pets him on the head and tells him she's got it.

She doesn't even wake him up for the dryer finishing; instead, he wakes up on his own at around eleven, tucked under his covers, with his laundry basket on the floor by the foot of the bed. He doesn't even feel that hungover, which is a blessing.

But Clarke is gone. 

Not that he really expected her to take Miller's bed or stay the night or anything, but--well, he wishes she had. So he could thank her properly.

He's tugging on his favorite jeans--now clean--when he spots the note on the bedside table. It's scribbled on a piece of paper from his notepad, in a messy hand. There's a bottle of water on the corner, holding it down, and the first thing he sees in huge print is _DRINK THIS_. Below that, the note reads, _Water, in case you can't drag yourself down the hall to get some yourself. I picked up your laundry, but I draw the line at folding it. Text me when you wake up so I know you survived the night. --Clarke_

It's very encouraging, until he sees the telephone number after her name is smudged beyond recognition. The water bottle must have been cold when she put it down, and condensation leaked off, blurring the last six digits into an inky mess.

"Fuck," he says, flopping back on the bed.

He realizes, after he's moped over lunch, that, honestly, she _has_ to live in his building, given how long she was gone to get her first-aid kit. So she's not unfindable. And she tried to leave her number, which means she probably wants to be found. If he tracks her down, she's not going to think he's creepy.

She even said he was _cute_. It's not exactly a ringing endorsement of how much she wants to make out with him, but it's not the worst start. He can offer to buy her dinner to thank her for taking care of him. Assuming she's as pretty when he's sober as she is when he's drunk, which--he has seen her around before, and she definitely is.

Miller's in the dorm when he gets back, propped up on his bed with no visible injuries from his night of debauchery, like an asshole.

"What happened to your face?" he asks. Miller's always good for some fraternal sympathy. It's why he and Octavia get along so well; they both show affection by telling him he's a dumbass. Like most of the people he loves do.

"Long story. Do you know a girl named Clarke?"

Miller considers this. "Tell me how you got hurt and I'll tell you."

It is definitely going to go horribly wrong. Miller probably doesn't even know Clarke, he can just tell Bellamy got his injury in a horribly embarrassing way. But if he does, it'll save some time. And Bellamy's done more embarrassing things in front of Miller. Probably.

"I was trying to take my pants off to put in the washing machine, tripped, and hit my head," he says. "On the washing machine."

"Awesome, good job," says Miller. "I don't know a girl named Clarke."

"Fuck you. Blonde hair, lives in our building?"

"Yeah, that doesn't narrow it down. Was she at my party?"

"No, uh, she found me in the laundry room and patched me up."

"Wow. It's just like a fairy tale."

"Seriously, fuck you. She left her number, but I can't read it, so I'm probably going door-to-door trying to find her. I don't need to write my thesis, right?"

"Did she leave a shoe or something? I feel like this needs to be more epic."

Bellamy flops on his bed and rubs his face. "She made fun of me, made sure I didn't have a concussion, and did my laundry for me. And she's cute. I'm probably going to get down on my knees and beg her to go out with me,"

"Straight dating sounds really weird."

"She's not straight, I don't think. She has at least one ex-boyfriend and one ex-girlfriend, so I'm hoping for bi, but I guess the boyfriend might have turned her off all men."

"Good luck with that. I hope you have to do an email blast to find her."

"I hope you trip and die."

"You know it's my birthday, right?"

"I hope you trip into a cake and suffocate." He hauls himself off the bed with a sigh. "Okay, I'm going to go see if I can find her. Wish me luck."

"Nope."

"Cool. Happy birthday."

Their building is five floors, and Bellamy knows Clarke doesn't live on the second, so he just has four other floors to check. And most people have signs with their names on their doors, so it really shouldn't take long. 

He's still incredibly nervous. He couldn't really overthink talking to her last night, or at least not in any of his usual ways. He was worried about acting like a sober person in control of his limbs, not a cool person in control of his life. 

About half the rooms on the first floor don't have name signs, so it's possible the next few days of Bellamy's life will involve knocking on random doors asking if Clarke lives there, like that scene in _Love, Actually_ , without the inspirational Christmas backdrop. Or maybe Clarke will just come to him if he doesn't text, to make sure he's not dead, and he'll be out looking for her, so it will be a hilarious misadventure where they keep failing to find each other.

Room 414 doesn't have name signs on it, but it does have a whiteboard, divided down the middle, that says _CLARKE_ on one side and _RAVEN_ on the other. Raven's side says _home for the weekend, nerds_ , while Clarke's is blank, so he takes a deep breath and knocks.

She's wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants, with her hair in a messy braid, and his mouth goes a little dry at the sight of her. She's _beaming_ at him.

"Hey, you're alive."

"Yeah, uh--thanks." He gives her a shy smile of his own. "I would have just texted, but your number got kind of smudged and I couldn't read it."

"Really? That sucks. I thought I was being so cool with that note."

"Oh, yeah, no, you definitely were. I was in total awe."

"I get that a lot." She steps back from the door. "How are you feeling? Do you want to come in?"

"I'm not interrupting anything?"

"No, please. I've got a paper I don't want to write _and_ a problem set I don't want to do. Your timing is awesome."

The room has the same layout as his and Miller's, but Clarke and her roommate have arranged it differently, leaving their beds bunked in the corner so there's more space for other stuff. There's a giant TV and a beat up old couch, shelves full of books, and a bunch of half-assembled electronics in one corner.

"Sorry it's a mess."

"Yeah, you've definitely seen me at my worst, so--"

"Hey, don't say that," Clarke says, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Don't sell yourself short. I bet you could be even more of a disaster if you really put your mind to it. If you can dream it, you can be it, Bellamy."

He ducks his head, laughing. She's so fucking _cute_. It's hard to process without the haze of alcohol. "Thanks. It's nice to have someone who believes in me."

"Any time." She sits on the couch and pats the cushion next to her, and Bellamy sits down, feeling a little awkward. "I'm assuming you wouldn't have come out here if you didn't want to hang out."

"I was actually going to ask if I could buy you dinner," he says, looking at her from under his eyelashes. It's one of his more endearing expressions, he's learned. "You know, to thank you."

"Oh, to thank me," she says, tapping her finger on her chin. "I don't know. I was going to say yes, but that's when I thought it was a date. If you just want to thank me, I prefer cash. But I also take PayPal."

It's possible he'll never stop grinning. "The first dinner is to thank you, the second one is the date."

"And the third?"

"Yeah, I'm on a scholarship, I pay for two dinners in a relationship and after that we just go to the dining hall."

"Setting realistic expectations."

"Again, you met me because I fell over taking off my pants in public and injured myself. It seems kind of pointless to try to convince you I'm cool now."

"I'm glad you've already given up trying," she says, and kicks her feet up onto the table in front of her. "I've got a thing tonight, but I'm free tomorrow or Tuesday or Wednesday or--" She cuts herself off with a flush, like she's embarrassed for being eager. "Yeah, um. I could do dinner. Most days this week."

"Tomorrow works for me," he says, and reaches over to take her hand while he's at it. He remembers the feel of her fingers on his skin yesterday, and he's been looking forward to touching her again. "What are you doing tonight?"

She's smiling down at their joined hands in a slightly unbelieving way, a pleased flush still on her face. "Stupid department event," she says. "I'll go, be polite at my mom, and try to drink enough that I don't hate it but not so much that I trip and injure myself on the table."

"Good goal. If you do, you know where to find me. I'll definitely nurse you back to health. I owe you one."

She grins. "My hero."

"And you can tell all your professors you saved a guy's life. I would have bled to death in the laundry room without you."

"This event is sounding better and better." She bites her lip. "Anyway, yeah, that's why I need to get actual work done on my paper and problem sets today, so--"

"I can take off," he offers. "I just wanted to make sure I found you and got your number."

"Which you don't actually have yet. But I was going to say I probably have time for an episode of Spatacus, if you want to stick around."

"Only if I get your number," he says, and she grins.

"I bet you say that to all the girls who find you bleeding in the laundry room."

"Literally every one," he says, truthfully. 

"Well, I guess you've got a type," she says, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Yeah," he says, even though he never really has before. It's still true.

After all, he's definitely got one _now_.


End file.
